Mike Dillingham: Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers: The Adventures of Balto, Back of the Pack, Honor Bound, Rivers

On March 22, the ship arrived in Seattle, a city of 340,000 people on the sparkling coastal waters of Puget Sound, an eerily deep bay of the Pacific Ocean.

Beneath the sound’s deceptively smooth surface, menacing creatures lurked — octopuses with six-foot-long arms, 10-ton killer whales that sent shock waves rolling when they breached.

The city was watery and mysterious, too. So much water surrounded the downtown that it seemed like an island, and in the distance loomed the spectacular, dream-like Cascade Mountains. Balto could see snowy Mt. Rainier, the second-highest peak in North America at 14,410 feet — after Alaska’s Mt. McKinley. (Balto had never actually seen Mt. McKinley — it was even farther from Nome than Nenana — but Togo had — once, on Alaska’s first big relay race to save the life of a banker.)

The dogs were eager to get grooving, jerking and pulling at their harnesses and jumping all over Kaasen. They were sled dogs, after all, and they wanted to run — to the distant mountains, the only snow they could see anywhere. There was no snow in wet, rainy Seattle.

But when the dogs scampered across the boat’s gangplank, they were engulfed by a tidal wave of reporters, photographers and cheering fans — many more than had welcomed them in tiny Nome after the serum run.

Flashbulbs popped. Children chanted: “Balto, Balto, Balto.” Kaasen stepped forward, dressed for the occasion in a squirrel fur parka with a wolverine fur hood, wolverine leggings and walrus hide boots. In his sing-songy, Norwegian-accented English, the ruggedly handsome frontiersman shyly answered questions about the serum run. The Boy Scouts showed Kaasen a telegram from their national headquarters instructing them to help the team in any way they could. And Balto was presented with the key to the city — in the shape of a bone!

“For Balto, there was the first sight of a big city, a first ride in an automobile and everywhere hundreds of outstretched hands eager to touch the famous dog,” the Seattle Times wrote in a story the next day. “He accepted it all with modest dignity becoming to a dog who has acquired such fame.”

But the team had work to do. Lesser’s film crew was waiting to whisk them to Mt. Rainier National Park, a vast wilderness area about 50 miles southeast of Seattle. The entourage left by truck that very evening — the happy dogs once again barking, yipping and howling as they got closer and closer to snow!

Betty Ann and Shirley Gene Quackenbush on Balto’s arrival at Seattle.

Courtesy of Special Collections, Cleveland University Library.

Mt. Rainier National Park had been set aside as a national park in 1899. The pristine wonderland was the country’s fifth oldest national park — after Yellowstone, Yosemite, General Grant (now part of Kings Canyon) and Sequoia. The huge park was like a chunk of Alaska — one of the best chunks — with old-growth forests, coldly silent glaciers, tremendous snowfields and summer meadows bursting with wildflowers. Small lakes sparkled amid the dense forests like hidden gems — emeralds, sapphires, lapis lazuli, turquoise. The truck made its way to Paradise, in the park’s center, where 20 feet of snow blanketed the landscape like a fluffy quilt.

Paradise was one of the snowiest place on earth, with more than 52 feet of snow a year! Guests at the Paradise Inn clomped around on snowshoes and broke trails through the powder on cross-country skis — except on days when there were avalanche warnings.

The huskies were in paradise, all right. The beauty and the silence inspired them to sing the husky songs for which they were so famous — something they hadn’t done since leaving Alaska. Their high-pitched voices echoed through the tall Douglas fir trees, which bristled up from the mountain plateau like spears, their branches bent and snow-laden.

For the film crew, shooting the re-enactment of the serum run was hard work. But for the dogs, it was non-stop fun. Kaasen hooked the dogs up to their beloved sled and mushed off into the wilderness. Then he turned the team around and mushed back toward the cameraman, who had his camera rolling.

But sometimes the sky would turn heavy and the sun would disappear, or Kaasen would forget not to look directly at the camera. So the crew had to call for take after take, which was fine with the dogs, who got to run their hearts out — for the first time in weeks!

The were blissed out, completely happy just to be alive and to be huskies. They were happy beyond a gazillion dog bisquits, happy beyond a gazillion pounds of frozen salmon to be back in their familiar world of sun, snow and sub-zero temperatures.

But not for long.

The dogs had hoped to make the white Washington wilderness their new home. But within days, they were back in gray, rainy Seattle, where they were herded onto another train. Heading south, they soon left the mountain behind them — forever.

The farther south the dogs traveled, the less likely it seemed they would ever see snow again. And train travel was getting old fast. In fact, it was no fun at all. The dogs were separated from one another on the trip, packed up individually in crates set in a stuffy, unrefrigerated cargo car.

In California, the landscape became lush and sweet-smelling, with field after field of orange trees, lemon trees, grapefruit trees, red and green grapes, lettuces, cucumbers and avocados, bright red strawberries and tomatoes. Fields of apricots, melons, olives and asparagus ran together like squares in a patchwork, stretching for 450 miles down a long, wide valley, with towering mountains to the west and east.

California was one big salad bowl! In Alaska, fresh vegetables usually were had only in dreams. There were none in winter, and few in summer — the growing season was extremely short, and people were too busy mining, hunting and fishing to plant gardens.

But this land was something new! California was alive with color — teeming with it, screaming with it — like the ever-changing patterns in a kaleidoscope. Fresh fruits and vegetables could be had year-round, and backyard gardens were little Edens abloom with vines and flowers.

At last, the team arrived in sun-drenched Los Angeles, land of swaying palm trees, golden beaches and glamorous movie stars.

In 1920, Los Angeles had been the country’s tenth largest city — but by 1925 it was closing in on fifth place fast, behind New York, Chicago, Philadelphia and Detroit.

The city’s young motion picture industry was booming. Each month, more than 10,000 new residents poured into the city of nearly 1 million: actors, writers, directors, publicity agents, movie industry wannabes.

Others were attracted by the near-perfect weather, which was almost always sunny and balmy — sun-kissed, like the state’s oranges. Thousands of people from other parts of the country visited Los Angeles on vacation, hoping to see movie stars and their palatial mansions. Los Angeles was a city of dreamers, hopefuls, up-and-comers and success stories.

At 35, Sol Lesser was definitely a success story. The young producer and theater owner knew how to make things happen — how to bring together the many elements needed to make a movie. He could take an idea and make it real, see a movie through from conception to completion.

So Lesser produced an elaborate reception for the team when it arrived in Los Angeles on April 2 — this one even more overwhelming than the one in Seattle. The city’s elite turned out and Kaasen and the dogs were treated like dignitaries. Balto was given another “bone to the city,” which meant nothing to him, of course. His regular diet was fish; he would have preferred a frozen salmon. He sniffed at the bone politely, then left it.